He groans from his throat. There is duct tape over his brow and around his jaw, holding his ruined face in place. We have been at this for hours.
I flex my tattooed fingers as I stare down at the whimpering mess strapped to the metal chair. His blood paints and speckles the rough cement floor around his shoes.
William Davis; the accountant at The Main. Father of three. And, as Bronson has just discovered, a fucking traitor. We need to clean the streets before the Family arrives. No fucking time for pleasantries, second chances, or mercy.
"Let me understand this correctly," I say, my voice smooth even to my own ears. Relaxed.
Thank you, little deer.
I go on, "You have been using my hotel, my Family's business, to launder money for The Stockyard Bikers and store their drugs?"
It adds up.
Yesterday, there were bikers in the city. MyCosa Nostraguards counted ten within a block of the hotel. Bolton first thought they were following my little deer and sons, but that would be too obvious. More likely, they were headed here. To gather intel from William.
Interesting…
Williams’s left eye is swollen shut, while his right is weeping and red, darting frantically between my brother Bronson and me.
His mouth opens, blood flowing out with two words. “I’m sorry…”
He is not a brave man.
Bronson leans down to get a better look at William’s fractured face. “Oh, bummer. Now Willy can’t see your beautiful face, big brother. What a pity.”
I don’t talk.
I just stare at him.
Smoothing my hand down my tie, I repeat my question with patience only mustered by the dopamine and serotonin still coursing through my veins. I always thought I operated best under duress, but not in this instance. “Walk me through this again, my boy. You’ve been running my hotel’s books for how long now? Twelve years? Yet you thought I wouldn’t notice when the digits shifted. Thought we wouldn’t ask questions about the maintenance issues that do not, in fact, exist. Storing stock? We found it. All of it.”
He tries to respond.
Too fucking frozen with fear.
I look at my brother as he paces back and forth like a tiger bored with its own cage, each step punctuated by the crisp snap of latex gloves being stretched and snapped against his own wrist. He doesn’t need gloves; he loves a show—Bronson. Always has. I don’t know where the theatrics come from, not our father, perhaps our mother. Would he hate that comparison? Perhaps. She was a terrible mother.
I am more like her…
As cold as she was.
“You’re going to tell me why, William. You’re going to tellme because if you do not, Bronson will get creative. And nobody wants that. Not even me.”
William finally croaks out a reason. “They… they threatened?—”
So, that’s a yes.
“Threatened your children? Your wife? You? And I have not?” I look at Bronson. “Did we forget to threaten him?”
“You’re a beautiful man,” Bronson laughs. “Heart of gold. But we built this empire on the premise that nobody gets a free spin on our machines without paying the toll. You understand, Willy?” Bronson gestures around us at the endless rows of washers, the sacks of starched linens. He gestures to my face. I deadpan. “We pay in beauty.” He points his finger into William’s chest. “You pay in loyalty.”
William blinks his left eye, what’s left of it, like he wants to cry but can’t remember how. I’ve seen that look many times. “Please, I… I don’t want to die…”
I step backwards.
I click my tongue.
What to do?
